


A Hell of a Fight

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [82]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Morning After, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15286374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The last thing Bruce remembered was a slip of pink, fragrant paper resting in the palm of his hand. The words on it, too, scrawled in neat, black loops:there’s still a lot of love left in your fragile heart.





	A Hell of a Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Fuzzy morning after or 'do you remember what we did last night?' and There's still a lot of love left in her fragile heart. Prompts from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

The last thing Bruce remembered was a slip of pink, fragrant paper resting in the palm of his hand. The words on it, too, scrawled in neat, black loops: _there’s still a lot of love left in your fragile heart_.

He remembered the sudden weight of the paper, of his eyelids, how it felt as if the whole world was swaying. His head felt like a seesaw.

And then Clark’s hand on his shoulder, steadying, squeezing. “Bruce? You ok?”

And then--

He sat straight up, or tried to. It felt like there was half a house on his chest.

His chest that was...bare. He shifted, trying to shake free of the debris, and oh: the rest of his clothes were gone, too. Huh. Must’ve been a hell of a fight.

Who had he been fighting again?

Bruce shook his head, trying to bring his brain back online. It felt like his brain was cotton candy, sugar spun and uncertain--one good lick and the whole of it, of him, would dissolve; and only then did he realize that his eyes weren’t actually open and that he was still stuck and that there was something moving wet and warm against his neck.

The something hummed, a soft, pleased sound. It made his skin shiver.

He turned towards it, blind instinct--it felt good, and he wanted...what did he want?--and the something sighed and shifted and only when Bruce was knee deep in a hot, lazy kiss did he put the pieces together: the weight on top of him? A person. The wet thing? A very talented tongue. And he was pinned down not in the rubble of a smashed building but in a big, achingly soft bed.

His hands answered him, finally, sliding up the other person’s broad shoulders and crawling into their--his?--hair and that got him a groan, another low and resonant rumble, the rut of a big cock against his thigh.

He didn’t mean to spread his legs, there was no conscious thought about it, but he did and it felt so good; better still when the other man’s fingers found him there, pressed none to gentle against the edge of the clench and it was like flipping a switch because his body bloomed, opened damp and eager, and oh, he thought somewhere, he ached, felt stretched and spent and empty. He’d been full, hadn’t he, been full for so long and now he wasn’t and fuck, how he needed to be. But the words wouldn’t come and his eyes wouldn’t open and all he could do was lift his hips and press back against the pressure, ask without asking for more.

There was something he should be remembering. It ate him, the small part of him that wasn’t being burned down to the ground by the man’s nuzzled kisses. There was something he should already _know_ , he was sure of it, something incredibly vital and yet--

And yet--

What mattered more was the noise he was making, the pleased little grunts the man was drawing out of him with the stroke of his fingers, the thumb that pushed gently into the wet.

Bruce’s head fell back, heavy, straining towards that touch, and gods, he was hard, desperate like he’d been teasing himself for hours, like he hadn’t come in a month, the stickiness on his stomach be damned.

“Yes,” the man whispered, a ragged strain. “ _Yes_. Yes, let me.”

He was fully open now, his thighs parted, the man stroking him from the inside out. His body felt like a rose, a lily, and with every breath, each touch, the air around them grew richer, like they were sinking into the earth.

“Give me your hands,” the man said.

He let go of the man’s hair at once and suddenly the push at his opening was gone, the promise, and even the man’s hands on his wrists, the sudden shock pin of them above Bruce’s head, could not stop the anguished tear from his throat, the full-volumed whine.

A kiss on his cheek. “I’ve got you.” On the edge of his mouth. “Be still.”

And then the man was on top of him properly, the whole weight of his body pinning Bruce down, and every part of him tingled, like his skin was made up of newly-struck matches lingering happily within the flame.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” the man said softly, his cock right there, right there, insistent. “Tell me if it hurts. I’ll stop if it--”

Bruce arched his neck and snatched the words from the man’s mouth, shoved his tongue in their place, and the man made a sweet, hurt sound and shoved and then Bruce wasn’t empty anymore.

Then his body, the other man's--together, they sang.


End file.
